


Interlude: Safe

by ProcioneRenaissanceArcana (wanderlustnostalgia)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Awkwardness, Baseball, Family Issues, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gokudera Hayato Swears A Lot, Hugs, Light Angst, Male Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sports, Tsundere Gokudera Hayato, feelings hard, let my boys be happy, read this however you want, some cheesy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/ProcioneRenaissanceArcana
Summary: Hayato doesn’t know when—or why—he started caring about the playoffs.
Relationships: Gokudera Hayato & Yamamoto Takeshi, Gokudera Hayato/Yamamoto Takeshi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Interlude: Safe

**Author's Note:**

> The sportiest fic I have ever written and probably will ever write. Written as platonic but can be read in any way you like (I certainly won't complain <3)
> 
> Context for the octopus can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459263/chapters/64512349#workskin).

Hayato doesn’t know when—or why—he started caring about the playoffs.

It’s his senior year, and college applications should be at the top of his ever-growing list of priorities (along with other, less tedious things, like mastering his latest bomb technique, or breaking into Area 51). Instead he has new threats to the Vongola (to the _Tenth_ ) to contend with, if his nightmares are anything to go by, but he can’t crash at the Tenth’s because his sister’s always over there for no fucking reason and she keeps trying to talk to him when he just wants her to stay the fuck out of his business, and—well, it goes without saying that being alone with your thoughts in a cold, drafty studio apartment with a mattress that’s more bedbugs than stuffing is pretty fucking miserable.

And there are only so many other places he feels—well, _comfortable._ As in there aren’t many places in Namimori where you can sit and brood over unseen enemies without people looking at you funny, plus none of those places exactly have Vongola-levels of security. Which, by process of elimination, leaves Takesushi—and is it really his fault if the elder Yamamoto keeps the radio tuned to the same station every afternoon, chattering on about line drives and sliders and other jargon that takes up way too much space in Hayato’s brain? If Hayato ends up hanging around until the Tenth’s Rain Guardian comes back from practice, then ends up letting the idiot drag him upstairs, blathering about batting averages and ERAs the whole way? If the best sleep Hayato’s gotten lately is on someone else’s couch with the game on in the background?

So yeah. Not that he’ll ever admit it to anyone (not even the Tenth), but he spends a lot of time with the baseball freak these days. Sue him.

Right now, he’s sprawled out on said baseball freak’s couch, TV remote in one hand and his chin propped up on the other as said baseball freak busies himself making coffee in the kitchen. There’s a copy of some magazine on extraterrestrial life the guy picked up off a supermarket rack while buying snacks for the kids, and _Ancient Aliens_ starts in about five minutes, so Hayato doesn’t know why he’s still watching the game Yamamoto left on, the game Yamamoto has explicitly told him he doesn’t have to watch and will probably be recapped on the radio tomorrow anyway, the game that thus far has been little more than a pitcher’s duel with an awful lot of hype and not much in the way of action.

He’s lazy, that’s it. No—conserving energy. There’s only so much of it a guy can have in a day, even a guy like Hayato, and he’s got to save as much of it as possible for the Tenth.

“Bottom of the sixth, right?” Yamamoto asks, momentarily blocking Hayato’s view as he sets a mug of coffee down on the low table. He seats himself cross-legged on the floor, leaning his head back against the couch. “I haven’t missed anything, have I?”

Hayato grunts. “The mascot nearly got brained by a foul ball,” he says, reaching for the coffee. Yamamoto’s espresso is surprisingly competent, for a guy who takes his lattes 90 percent milk. He even has the right beans, which are damn near impossible to find in Japan, not to mention expensive as fuck (which means the sword freak from the Varia probably sent them over, not that he’s complaining). “Seriously, how the fuck do you watch this shit? Nothing ever happens.”

“So grumpy, goodness.” Yamamoto chuckles. “You can always change the channel, you know—”

He reaches for the remote, and Hayato yanks it away. At Yamamoto’s raised brow, he grumbles, “I started this shit, I’m finishing this shit.”

Yamamoto frowns at him, but he doesn’t question it. “Stubborn as ever, I see.”

Hayato rolls his eyes. “Shut up and drink your milk.”

The game’s still tied one run each by the ninth inning, the setting sun casting a warm glow over Yamamoto’s living room. Hayato reaches over Yamamoto’s shoulder, popping a _norimake arare_ cracker into his mouth, and admits to himself that he wouldn’t really mind if the game spilled into another inning. Or two. Three’s pushing it, though.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” Yamamoto says, nudging Hayato with his elbow. “I can tell. Just look at Fuiji.” He nods to the screen, a bright look in his eye. It’s been a while since Hayato saw that look—that _spark_ —without the edge of battle behind it. That, combined with the fact that Fuiji looks ready to fucking murder someone, is enough to make him bite back the snarky retort he had lined up and keep his eyes trained on the screen, watching with a muted version of the intense anticipation that usually accompanies a mission.

They manage to get runners on first and second, and Hayato doesn’t even care that his coffee’s gone cold as he sits up, his heart in his throat at every missed swing, every foul ball, every failed steal. He doesn’t bother blaming it on the caffeine.

“Come on, Watanabe,” Yamamoto’s murmuring, “come on—”

The pitcher winds up.

“If they can just get a hit…”

Watanabe swings, and connects.

Fuiji takes off like a shot from second, and as the ball flies from outfield to infield, he dives, sliding headfirst into home just as the catcher’s glove reaches his ankle.

“SAFE!”

Yamamoto shoots up, nearly upending the table in his joy. His glass tips over as it jostles, thankfully empty. “We’re going to the finals!” he shouts, pumping his fist in the air, and Hayato can’t help but raise his mug, a crooked smile on his face.

Then—“Shit!”—Yamamoto’s tugging Hayato to his feet, coffee sloshing around in the mug, and enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. It’s warm, and painful, and Hayato’s still got one arm sticking out trying not to drop the mug and Yamamoto smells like espresso with vague notes of fish but Hayato…doesn’t hate it. It’s…kind of nice, actually. Comfortable isn’t the right word, but maybe…

_Safe?_

…Well. Fuck.

Yamamoto finally releases him, flushed and sheepish. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Probably should’ve asked you first, eh?”

Hayato, for once in his life, is at a loss for words. What’s he supposed to say to that? Brush it off? Punch him in the shoulder? Tell him to learn some personal space?

(...Ask for more?)

“Just…don’t expect me to kiss you or anything,” he manages. “Baseball brain.”

Yamamoto merely laughs, then glances around, noticing how dark it’s gotten outside. “Whoa, it’s late.” His smile fades, like he’s just now remembering that there’s a world beyond the ballpark—not nearly as kind, and with so much more at stake.

“Yeah.” Hayato jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Hitmen generally make a point of never overstaying their welcome. “I should go.”

“Right.” Yamamoto wilts a little, shoulders drooping. He looks so much older in this light, and tired, the shadows harsh under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. (Has he always been that bony?) “Well. Thanks for the company.”

Hayato blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. You too. For the coffee, I mean.” He pats Yamamoto’s arm awkwardly, because _fuck,_ he’s bad at this, but it’s Yamamoto and Yamamoto just kind of _gets_ Hayato, in ways no one else really does.

(He’s still an idiot, though.)

“Anytime.” Yamamoto squeezes Hayato’s shoulder gently. “Get home safe, yeah?”

Home. Safe.

Hayato thinks of an empty apartment, a shitty junkyard mattress and a baby grand collecting dust. Fuck, he’s got a long night of thinking ahead of him.

“Yeah,” he says, “all right.” He jerks a finger at Yamamoto. “But if you show up outside my apartment making this much noise, you’re fucking dead.”

Yamamoto laughs, and it’s soft but it’s sincere. “No promises.”

(If Hayato ends up falling asleep cuddling a four-year-old, ridiculously oversized stuffed octopus, and if his nightmares end up fucking off for a change—well, that’s no one’s business but his own.)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, writing this made me realize how much I miss going to ballgames. Oracle Park garlic fries hit different, just saying.
> 
> Writing this also made me realize that Gokudera has two modes of affection: "I would die for you" and "then perish."


End file.
